If you really want me to tell you I will
by SimonJester479
Summary: A collection of Booth thought processes/flashbacks/drabbles/etc.
1. Hell

**AN: Tag for Mayhem on a Cross, I don't own Bones. Please review.**

"_You don't know anything about Hell." _

"_And you do?"_

I didn't even have to hold myself back to keep from telling this little Emo messed up white-bread middle class washed up punk what I know of Hell. It wasn't worth telling him that he has no claim whatsoever on this subject no matter how satisfying it would be to watch him cringe in horror at the things that I've seen, done, and felt.

I should have answered with something snarky like: "Yeah I've been there you little punk." Or something along those lines, but now the time has passed as Pinworm is now locked up and Bones and me are now quietly drinking the vile taste of the interrogation room away.

"_Your delusional cozy reality doesn't even come close."_

Hmmm let me think on that, last I checked while I was definitely delusional at some points in my life my reality hasn't exactly been filled with cozy moments. In fact quite the opposite; it was the lack of happiness that made me delusional at times because I always remember that my fantasies were happy ones to help me escape from a lousy reality.

I remember the happy moments of growing up mainly because they're so few and far between; the rest was a mixture of overhanging fear and pain. Of course these moments are probably not the sort that other people remember from their childhood.

I remember the first time I hit back when he hit me and my brother. I was only six but I remember it like it was yesterday. He'd come home again smelling of cheap rotgut and started yelling about how me and my brother had made a mess in the living room and hadn't picked up our toys. He slapped me first and Jared second. Before he could hit us again I'd made a fist and swung at him catching him just below his knee. I felt so proud of myself because for the next week he'd only hit me and ignored mom and Jared. I still remember how good those bruises felt because I remember how much my mom would cry when he bruised her; I did what I could to keep her from hurting.

I remember coming home from school when I was 17 and saw him passed out snoring like a buzz saw on the floor. I couldn't help but notice that Jared had a broken arm and how blood was trickling down from his mouth. I remember how heavy the knife was in my hand as I stood over that helpless unconscious form. I can still feel the hate that I felt at that moment coursing through me and urging me to punish him for everything that he did. I remember how Granddad walked through the door suddenly and how he saw me just standing over dad like that knife in hand.

I remember coming back from the recruiter and telling him and mom how I signed up. When he railed at me for being a screw up I hit him… and hit him… and hit him… that was my happiest moment inside the place that I was raised.

Of course when I enlisted I thought I'd escaped Hell and I did for a little while. Basic, AIT, all the Army schools were some of the most enjoyable times in my life. Even freezing my ass off while starving in the mountains of Georgia and keeping awake my dropping little dollops of Tabasco sauce in my eyes I enjoyed myself. I guess it's what you're used to.

Then I left the schools and got deployed. If combat isn't Hell then you can at least see it from there. Being tired, hungry, and frightened all the time. Watching guys I signed up with break down and cry in the middle of the night, hearing their terrified screams while they slept. Nothing can prepare you for the first time you see a dead body; mine was a little girl who had been blown up by a grenade in Panama. I can still see her face, pristine in angelic beauty, her brown eyes and dark hair over a chocolaty skin. I can still see where her belly was; a red gory mess of shredded skin and pulped organs, her little blue dress was ruined.

The first time I killed was at least me knocking on Hell's door. My squad was taking fire from a ramshackle tin hut and I was on the team who had to go in and clear it. I can still feel the weight of the grenade in my hand as I twisted and pulled the pin away; the spoon bounced off the wall of the hut making a noise. It was such a loud noise…

I tossed the flash bang inside and rushed in. We didn't have any training for this sort of thing, not back then at least. I remember her flailing about with a pistol in hand. She was shooting wildly, blindly. I still think that I could have tackled her and neutralized her that way. I shot her twice in the chest, her blood was so red but her eyes were so blue. Her eyes kept staring at me as we bagged her.

I was so relieved to be chosen as a sniper I thought that way I'd never have to kill a person like that again. I'd never have to smell them as their life pumped out of their veins and onto the floor. Never again I'd have to watch them stare at me with those accusing eyes.

Every shot I took another piece of me died. I remember all my kills. My first one as a sniper was an old man. He looked so much like my grandfather. I can still remember how his mouth moved as my shot punched through his lungs. He had been exhorting his followers to another atrocity only to have his lungs fill up with blood. I stared at him through my scope until he bled out; his eyes stared right back at me.

My last kill as a soldier was the worst. I suppose it was a bit of a payback to the guys who had captured and tortured me. I can still smell the stench of my own shit covered body as I lay there a broken man. I could hear the sound of gunfire; I had no idea it was a rescue team. I had believed that my country had abandoned me to the clutches of these evil men and women.

A little boy ran into my cell carrying a knife screaming curses at me. He lunged at me thinking that I'd die quickly. I moved faster than he or I could believe; my body screaming in pain as I put pressure on broken bones and bleeding skin. I remember being thankful that they didn't do to me what they did to some of the other captives there. Rape isn't a crime that is reserved for women alone. I grabbed his face and slammed him down into the rock. I kept slamming him down until I looked down and realized that his skull was pulped and that my hands were covered in brains. I looked up just in time to see an American uniform before I passed out. Well I was unconscious at least but I kept seeing my brain and blood covered hands.

When I got out I was a drunken deadbeat drifter gambling my life away; it's not exactly hell but it wasn't heaven either.

When I finally cleaned myself up and became a cop I got to witness all the horrors that we try to keep covered up. For every victim you save you take on some of their pain. I took on so much pain… so much pain.

They say that man must suffer injustice or else he would never know justice; I suppose they have a point. I know that God and the Saints are trying to repay me for my time in Hell because I get to spend so much time in the company of an Angel. I know that I will never forget Hell because it would mean that I'd never know when I was in Heaven; I look to my side and see a beautiful sheen of white skin, azure eyes, and luscious brown hair.

She looks so beautiful in the soft dark light of this bar, she's still lost in her own thoughts. Probably should just let her keep thinking them without disturbing her, afterall if she's busy thinking then she can't catch me staring at her.

I might have been through Hell but now I know that I'm close to being in Heaven.


	2. I need a face

**AN: Disclaimer, I don't own Bones. This is a bit of a throwback to season 1 so if you forget what scene this references then you can thank me for giving you an excuse to go back and watch more Bones. Enjoy!**

I need a face

How does a sniper know his target? He studies, he learns, he analyzes. A sniper gets into the target's head until he can anticipate the target's actions; until he knows the target better than the target does. Actually….

Scratch that, that's not what a sniper does.

It's what an assassin does.

That's what I was, an assassin. I was given targets to neutralize and a cornucopia of information about them; the only difference between me and a mob hit-man was that I was a sanctioned agent who preferred long range kills.

When I first worked with SOCOM I was thrilled; here was an opportunity to never get back into the horrors of close combat, I'd never have to make that same decision again to shoot rather than attempt to subdue.

I was wrong.

Sure the first few assignments were rather mundane and fit my bill perfectly. Endless days trekking through the hinterlands of South America, getting into a good spot and waiting days on end for my target to make a mistake. God forgive me but I loved that. Being a sniper was easy at first because I could imagine myself being distanced from the target; I wasn't killing them I was simply reaching out and touching them, guiding death to them as it were.

But then I made that age old mistake of being good at what I do. There's an adage in the army: "If you want something done give it to someone who's busy."

After that my tasks got… darker. Dirtier. They call it "wet-work" because the task is so murky that you can't really discern the situation until after it's done.

It was doing this that I began to realize how adept I was at knives.

Yeah while I was at Battalion we'd have those shoot the shit sessions where everyone would be out showing off what they could do; so I had a talent throwing knives? What of it I thought.

But this, this was different. It's something totally different from tossing a knife across the room in front of 50 of your hooting and hollering buddies; here I was sneaking up behind corpses who didn't know that they were dead yet. I learned here how a man sounds when he's so scared that he can't scream; how he smells when the last thing that he sees is the naked gleam of the cold steel and the last thing he hears is a whispered: "Ranger"

This time was perhaps the darkest time in my life and is the reason why I'll never try and kill from behind again.

My assignment was to take out an Iraqi war criminal. Or he would be a war criminal if anyone in the world cared about what he'd done; the funny thing about public knowledge is that we blind ourselves so readily to the true scum of humanity. This bastard was in charge of one of the units which were particularly gleeful in their use of chemical weapons against the Kurds; even while we watched they were being murdered by the thousands, we were decidedly resolved to be quavering and impotent with our power.

I studied the target for weeks, I learned everything about him. What he liked to eat, who he'd talk to, where he slept, hell I learned what sexual atrocities he preferred to inflict upon helpless captives that his unit took, I learned of how he disposed of them after he was done. Finally after watching him take another prisoner for his pleasure I took the shot. I saw him sauntering out of his tent, his back towards me and I was smiling as I lined the reticule up to the center of his back right behind the heart. I laughed as I saw the pink mist explode out of his chest. I knew I'd killed him even though I never saw his face. I'd studied the bastard for long enough to pick him out from a crowd; I knew every little quirk of his movements.

When I got back I suddenly found myself before an inquiry panel. They wanted to know who I killed. I told them that I killed the target, shot him walking out of his tent after he had raped and killed another innocent.

They asked me if I was sure, I told them that I was. Then I was dumb-struck when they said that I didn't kill him, that they'd broken ciphered Iraqi communiqués which said that he was found bound on his bunk naked with his throat slit.

For the longest time I was silent, I had no idea what was going to happen. Suddenly an aide rushed in with another communiqué saying that the Iraqis were saying that the target was indeed shot from long range, likely from a Kurdish guerilla.

That report vindicated me in the eyes of the panel but I couldn't help, still can't help really, and think about what had happened that day.

Did I really kill the target that I was assigned? Or did I kill another Iraqi soldier who happened to share a resemblance to him; I had been awake for days perhaps my judgment was off?

Or did I kill a prisoner as he was trying to escape in his captors, in his rapist's clothes?

I still don't know.

But I've resolved to never put myself in that situation again.

That's why I need a face. I need to see them and see their eyes. A person can hide and obscure their face but never their eyes. Eyes are the windows into the soul and I can determine who a person is because of that.

I need a face before I'll make the shot.


	3. Control

**AN: Welcome all to another exciting installment from SimonJester's Boothverse. Just so you all know my updates will be even more unreliable the next week or so as I have yet another FTX this time one that I'm in charge of. So while I would much rather be writing fun new installments and fics for all of you I'll instead be putting my energies into guiding the lives of some 30 other individuals for a few days while everyone else is busy enjoying the wonderful weather. So without further ado and without any more of my personal interjection; once again I do not own Bones. Enjoy.**

**Control**

_We'll open fire on the objective when the Illum round from the company 80mm mortars goes off. I want 3__rd__ and Weapons squads to lay a base of fire along this axis…_

The only good thing about going to Sweet's office is that I get to sit down in a really comfy couch. Past that there isn't really anything good that comes out of talking to a kid who looks half my age about all the thoughts that exist in my mind. Of course he doesn't just psycho-analyze me in those sessions; he does it damn near every time we speak.

Not that I blame him, everyone else does it whenever they comment about me, even Bones. Not that she'll admit that. Ever. I suppose it's an unconscious habit that everyone has.

_-ooth and Hakizimana will isolate the far building, labeled BZ, with controlled fire directed at these two guard towers. These towers control the only access from BZ to the main camp so if our snipers can…_

"You're always so controlled." "Why are you always trying to assert control?"

Why am I so controlled? Well I kind of have to be thank you very much. Growing up with an abusive alcoholic you learn early on to control all your actions, behaviors, even your thoughts. Everything had to be perfect all the time: I had to line up the coats and shoes in the closet just so, Jared had to have all his toys dress right dress in the toy box, and Mom had to be serving dinner just at the right time. I learned long ago that a perfectly controlled environment would be the difference from thrown balls caught with gloves in the streets to thrown shoes caught by heads in the house.

_-the signal to lift fire will be a green star cluster fired over the objective…_

When I finally left that house I found myself in another environment where control was key. You had to control your actions, your words; what you did and how you did it. I learned quickly that there was a right way, a wrong way, and the Army way. The discipline and control of the Army was far more familiar to me than many others who kissed the red dirt of Georgia; this time I chose it however so I excelled within this realm.

_-1__st__ squad will assault through and clear BC while 2__nd__ squad clears BD. Upon my signal that those buildings are clear we'll bound across this open area…_

Being a soldier is all about control and war is all about chaos. Combat is when these two principles mingle; to see which one comes out on top. It's surprisingly easy to lose control when your blood's pumping and your worst fears are coming to life in front of you but it's even easier when you just exit the kill zone. Most soldiers lose control after combat, after the adrenaline wears off and after total fear stops gripping their minds. Often it's just a sudden haunted look and barely suppressed sobs; we put on a tough front to everyone else but to tell the truth soldiers cry harder than anyone else; it's just the sort of stress we have to go through.

_-the EPW point will be located at the center here with me along the north end of the clearing up against this wall of BF…_

I lost it after the first time I went into combat; the shock was just too much for me. I threw up in my brain bucket and then plopped the helmet back on my head. I was so shook up… making that call to kill that woman. I kept thinking to myself "If only I was more in control over my fear…" I still think that if I wasn't so afraid I wouldn't have had to kill her.

_-we'll initiate the withdrawal plan after we've destroyed all the vehicles in the motor pool…_

When I was at Battalion before missions we'd rehearse everything over and over again until every action we made was intuitive and barely required any thought. When I worked with SOCOM we rehearsed everything so much that any one of us could have done anyone else's task instinctively. We had to work it until we were in perfect control over our bodies and the environment. Something as mundane as clearing our rifles under fire; we practiced that so often that I've been accused of muttering the steps to SPORTS in my sleep, much to the chagrin of some of my lighter sleeping lovers.

_-the company AA is at grid 18S VJ 3956 0239…_

Being trained as a sniper made that control even more important to me; the art of shooting requires a perfect amount of control from the shooter. Every action an equal and opposite reaction. My breathing, the wind, the sun, the elevation, the humidity… a million separate variables which I had to control in order to make the hit.

_-FO callsign is Red Dog1…_

Control is important. I've been accused of trying to control every situation I'm in but why the hell shouldn't I? When I'm in control I can keep my family safe. When I'm in control I can keep my buddies safe. When I'm in control I can keep my partner safe. When I lose control my family gets hurt and my buddies die. When I lose control the wrong people get hurt and die…

When I lose control I drive people away from me… how else can I explain what happened with Parker? I lost control of the situation when I proposed to Rebecca and now I have only a tenuous link to Parker's life; when I lost control before his namesake was killed.

_-the time is 2215 what are your questions?_

I've lost control too many times before; I've lost too much because of it. I can't lose control again, there is just too much at stake. I won't drive anyone else away from me.

So I have to take the rest of my life like it was another exercise, another rehearsal of an operation. Too bad I can't have God simply write an OPORD for me to follow, it would certainly make it alot easier for me.


	4. Betrayal

**AN: Once again I don't own Bones but if I did I'd use the proceeds to purchase a TV this week so I'd be able to watch the newest episode this thursday. I've decided to revert to my origional method of describing the inner mind of one Seeley Booth so I hope that you enjoy it and grace me with many reviews.**

**Betrayal**

It hit you extremely hard when she told you he lied although you didn't want to admit it; you knew the implications of that act. You knew what that lie meant. That lie meant that you were betrayed; that lie meant that she was betrayed.

In Dante's _Inferno_ at the innermost circle of Hell the Devil himself is entombed in the ice lake of Cocytus his three heads forever gnashing at the souls of three sinners. However the central head of Lucifer himself would forever gnash at one soul; his claws forever torturing the greatest sinner of them all: Judas Iscariot.

What was his sin? Treason. He was the Great Betrayer.

You've always seen it fitting that the greatest crime that a man could commit was treason. You should be happy that the one who betrayed you, the one who betrayed her, will never again be free; you should be happy that he is being punished.

But why do you weep these unmanly tears in the cold darkness of your home?

You saw it yourself when everyone gathered those last mementos of a bygone age to remind him of his past; of happier times for both the givers and receiver. All of you felt shame and hurt; you were not able to tell of the degree each of you shared for all of you are too adept at hiding those feelings under a Potemkin façade.

You lift the glass to your lips; fine scotch tastes like ashes as it rolls down your tongue.

You hope that your shame is greater than the others for deep down you know that you were the one who could have saved him from what he became. The others could never know what he had gone through over there; they might know the actions yes, but they could never understand.

You knew what he saw and did, why didn't you help him Seeley?

You know what it's like to be picked up and dropped somewhere thousands of miles from home. To live armpit to elbow with people you've never met before and to share your darkest thoughts and emotions with them when the rest of the world abandoned you. You know what it is to be forever surrounded by the feeling of death and pain without the careful screening of a sterile laboratory.

He asked you what it was like being shot; if it would make sense to duck. He was so… eager. "Eager" was the only word you could describe him as. You know that you could have told him stories and gotten him to stay as far away from that life as possible but you didn't. Why didn't you?

Another sip from the tumbler, maybe you should just grab the bottle and guzzle the liquid to reach an easy oblivion?

You have to admit you were stunned and touched by his statement that you knew more about duty and honor than anyone else that he knew. Was it that outreaching of tenuous brotherhood that compelled you to give your blessing to him; not that he'd call it a blessing? You knew that he looked at you like a father figure or an older brother, a pleasant difference from the one that actually was your brother. Was it his seeking of approval from you?

Perhaps it wasn't him that was reaching out to you at that moment, but you reaching out to him. In him you saw a man yearning to grow and see the world; in him you saw a man who was looking to join the ranks of an immortal and everlasting fraternity. Who were you to neglect to extend that invitation?

You thought that when he got back he'd…

Honestly you didn't know what he'd be like when he got back but you hoped it would be something different, something more… like you.

But when he got back… he was like his old self… mostly.

You should have seen the warning signs immediately. You could have helped him right then but you didn't, you failed him. You failed to save him after you helped send him away.

Could you have sent him to a shrink? No you could never have done that. All the good VA shrinks are always too busy with too many who need help; civilian shrinks might have been an option but… you distrust them. You distrusted those quacks after they messed with your head when you got back and you let that distrust prevent you from helping him. You should have helped him; you were the only one who really could.

The problem with people who've never had to see that little three letter word is that they can never know the horror of it or the aftermath of it.

That three letter word. You sent him off to see it, to witness it and when he got back a broken man you… you… turned your back on him.

The glass shakes in your hand, the amber liquid sloshes against the sides.

That's right Seeley let your shoulders fall and your tears sting your eyes; failure is a bitter pill but its taste is sweet compared to the new fruit you've sunk your teeth in.

It wasn't him that betrayed you. You betrayed him.

You were the one who turned your back on him when he got back; you were the one who didn't help him when he needed it.

That's right Seeley let those old ghosts of depression leech out of your mind and overwhelm your body; you know that you're the one who failed here, not him.

That three letter word, such a small word.

Why did you let him see it? Why did you let him experience it? Was it because you wanted someone else to talk to about it, someone else who at least had an inkling of knowledge on the subject?

Not that it matters any more. He's locked away forever now; she'll hurt forever now. They'll all hurt forever now.

A fit of rage wells up inside you and you throw the tumbler to the floor.

It shatters; moonlight from your window glitters off the pieces.

Thirty shimmering pieces.


	5. My Grandfather's Son

**AN: [Standard disclaimer on how I don't own Bones] Sorry all for the incredibly long time it's been since I've written anything, recently my muse has either shown up at times when I was swamped with work or has been absent entirely. Also I don't own the title of this chapter as it's the title of Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas' autobiography which is an astounding book in its own right. This chapter has been bumping around my head since I saw Mayhem on the Cross but I could never get it down in words and even now I'm not positive if I did justice to Booth's past. Read and review if you would be so kind.**

**My Grandfather's Son**

I lie in bed tossing and turning; Bones left only a few short hours ago after our dinner with Gordon-Gordon and Sweets, neither of us really wanted to part after the confrontation in Sweets' office but neither of us could bear bringing up those painful words, those painful memories up again so soon. I can feel how exhausted my body is with all the familiar aches and pains I get when being active and on my feet all day. I know I should be trying to comfort her and talk to her after her confession of her foster care experience, she shouldn't be in pain and she shouldn't have to cry. I should be taking care of her and not lying here in the dark consumed with my own memories.

Her words, her dare really, was too real and hit me too close to home. She was the only person to ever hear those words, to hear that pain from me.

"_If it wasn't for my grandfather I probably would have killed myself."_

What does it mean to be a father? Is he a simple progenitor of genetic material which is bequeathed to a progeny? Or is there something more behind the word, the title?

Undoubtedly in the eyes of most people and in the purview of the law a father is a direct biological link whose claim to that title is born from a biological act; makes sense because that's simply how it goes.

Usually the first family member to hold a newborn is the father, typically because the mother is doped up with painkillers, completely exhausted and has just finished cursing enough to turn the air blue. It's no surprise to anyone that the father is expected to care for and to protect his child from the moment of birth; it's just the way things are supposed to go.

In the eyes of the public it's easy to identify a child's father for boys look to the man who tosses baseballs with them or shows them how to drive, and fix, his first car. For girls look to the man who is constantly spoiling her and who waits up late at night on the front porch with a flashlight and a shotgun when she's out on a date.

But what about in private? How about when you and yours are away from the prying eye of your neighbors?

I keep thinking about how good and… proper my dad could be when other people were around, people not in the family. He was in many respects a model of hard work to the community; his barbershop was always full and always busy, he was always out working on something or other and was a pillar of respect at our parish. Nobody ever called him the most likable man but everyone respected him and thought him a perfect, cool headed man who could be counted on.

And yet at home it was… touch and go is the only way to describe it; some days he was merely distant and reserved others he was like a half-cocked pistol ready to go off at the slightest provocation. Discipline was something that he expected and imposed at home, and harshly when something was out of place. I still cringe at the memories. But it was something that I never would tell an outsider, I would never tell someone outside of the family about how dad was after he drank. It just wasn't something you tell outsiders.

It wasn't long before I realized that I'd never go to dad for help on anything; if he wasn't busy at the shop he was busy at the church, and if he wasn't busy there he was at the bar.

I stare at my clock willing myself to fall asleep; unfortunately the damn thing just stares back at me mocking me for my futile efforts.

I stare up at the ceiling remembering how granddad lived only a block away from us; I'd go to him for everything, from help with school to help with girls. Granddad was the one who taught me the Catechisms and he was the one who taught me the importance of faith. I can still remember his grizzled face and raspy white beard as he went over the Nicene Creed with me over and over until I could remember it, and then the smell of his pipe and cigars as he went over what it really meant with me.

It was some of my only good times in my childhood; going to his garage and working with him repairing cars and trucks while he grilled me incessantly on everything from the meaning of the Eucharist to who I was taking to the school dance. He'd always refer to me as "Seeley my boy," never just Seeley always "Seeley my boy."

When I entered high school everything suddenly went downhill. Dad's business took a nasty hit after a series of zoning disputes with the city threatened to shut down half the businesses in our neighborhood; he no longer went to church but straight to the bar to drown his sorrows. As this occurred the neighbors started to get more and more distant; as dad's good name started to dwindle in the community our entire family took the hit. More than once people would shake their heads as he would stumble up to our door; his breath so strong it would peel the cheap paint off the siding.

During this time I saw granddad less and less. Somebody had to be home to make sure things were ready for dad when he came home; somebody had to be there to take the hits when things weren't exactly right. Jared was too young and small and I could never let anything happen to mom so… I was the one who took the hits. Even so if something really important was happening that I needed help with I'd sneak out at night to go visit him even for fifteen minutes.

I remember one night after dad had finally passed out in a drunken stupor I was cleaning up the kitchen. He had gone off the handle about a stain in the linoleum that had been there for as long as I could remember. He started yelling and screaming at me for not getting the stain out, for letting the house look like a pigsty, for being worthless, for failing at being a proper son.

I grit my teeth and fight back tears as I remember all the things he said to me, all the things he called me. I unconsciously rub my left arm going over the invisible welts and bruises left from his hands.

I sat there scrubbing away at the floor, going back and forth back and forth over the offending stain desperate to get it out before he woke up the next morning. I still don't know why but the kitchen knife caught my eye. Suddenly I picked it up and held it in front of me; sharp and gleaming under the harsh electric light above the stove. I thought how simple it would be to put it to my wrists, to end everything. I'd no longer be a worthless son, I'd no longer have to protect mom and Jared, and I'd no longer have to… feel any more pain. It'd be so simple.

I held the sharp edge to my wrists. The cold metal felt comforting.

But… I hesitated.

Granddad's voice was in my head whispering to me: "Life is God's gift to you Seeley my boy, who are you to reject a gift from God?"

Tears stung my eyes as I looked at the welts on my arm; dad's harsh and vindictive words still echoing in my ears.

But Granddad's words echoed in my heart.

"Seeley my boy you know that suicide is a sin and a coward's way out. You're a brave boy and are no coward. Why are you so ready to give up?"

I kneeled there shuddering for the longest time in the lonely darkness of the kitchen; the pale illumination from the lone light bulb barely casting a light into the encroaching darkness.

"Seeley my boy don't do it you're a better man than that. I've taught you to be better than a shirker, a sinner and a coward. Do not abandon those who are depending on you. Man up to the pain Seeley my boy because you can take it. Don't allow pain to come to those who need you."

Suddenly at those words I flailed back dropping the knife on the floor, the clatter sounded deafening in the dark room.

Granddad kept me alive with his words; he's the one who taught me to be the man I am today. A father is more than a simple biological progenitor for a child; he is a teacher, a mentor, a protector. A father is a man who teaches right from wrong, gives standards and upholds them.

I sit up in bed and recall one of the most profound conversations that you've had with Bones after you took that spill on the hockey rink.

_"He said that I'm not like my old man, that I'm made of better stuff."_

_"Well, I don't know your old man, your father, but I think you're made of very, very good stuff."_

Thinking about that makes me smile but it brings home a point that I missed a long time ago. I'm not like my dad but I am like my father. I'm not my dad's son but my grandfather's son. This realization releases much of the tension that had been weighing down on my shoulders and I slump back onto the bed. Before I realize it a dreamless sleep overtakes me.


End file.
